


Only This and Nothing More

by poisontaster



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Dom/sub, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Sex Toys, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-14
Updated: 2007-03-14
Packaged: 2018-04-25 17:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4970662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only This and Nothing More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [estrella30](https://archiveofourown.org/users/estrella30/gifts).



He's twenty-seven and this is how it is:

_What do you want, Dean?_

Sam's thumbs are almost longer than the width of Dean's thighs. When he presses just _so_ , against the muscle, Dean's legs part like the Red Sea. When he presses just _so_ , Dean doesn't care that Sam is his younger brother, or his brother at all. Because when Sam does that…

The bracelet. Taking off the bracelet is like opening a padlock. But the door, the door inside him, it doesn't open—it _can't_ —until he feels the press of those fingers, those _hands_ against his skin. Bidding him open. Making him open.

Allowing him to open.

Sam's lips are wet, wanting, against the skin of Dean's thigh, a kiss. And then a bite, hard, savage and joyous. One that will leave a bruise, an imprint, something that shows: _Sam's_. One that makes his cock lurch and spurt between his legs, aching.

"Sam…Sam…"

"Shhhh…"

The thumbs slip up, to the crease of his ass, to the soft, sensitive stripe of skin between his legs. The line Sam's ragged thumbnails trace up his perineum is electric cold, shuddering through him in waves of goosebumps, wakening him, freeing him in soft cries and pleading whimpers.

And then Sam's face is there, the heat and dampness of his breath stirring through Dean's hairs, stirring his cock to greater hardness. "Open up, baby," Sam hums against him and Dean's thighs tense with the effort to not come.

"Sam," he whispers, desperate, "Sammy…"

Sam kisses him once, almost chaste, and then follows with his tongue, deep, dirty and devilish. Dean digs deep into the mattress, his body a bowstring of _yes_ and tuned only to Sam's hand. _Hands._

Sam opens Dean like a mouth and kisses him, _soul kisses_ him and Dean's never given a whole lot of thought to where his soul sits but when Sam licks and sucks like that, Dean swears it's dragging out of him right there, like that.

And Sam is…

_What do you want, Dean?_

…smiling against Dean's lips, drinking every moan as he clicks the remote again and the vibrator buzzes to life, a bone deep hum that shakes Dean's bones and draws him tight around it until he feels every fake plastic ridge and vein imprinted in his flesh.

"Open your eyes, Dean," Sam whispers without lifting his mouth away. "Let me see you."

Tears burn against his lids; when Dean lifts them, the tears fall, cutting fiery paths down his temples and into his hair. He lets Sam see him, because Sam wants it and because—even though it hurts—Dean wants to be seen. Not all the time, but when they're like this. When he is for Sam. When he's not an older brother or a dutiful (wayward) son but only Dean.

Only Sam's Dean.

Sam's hand moves and the vibrator starts its slow, shuddering withdrawal. Dean arches, held in place only by Sam's thigh over his, Sam's forearm weighting his shoulder. His mouth is open, his breath blurting into Sam's mouth as he pants.

"Is it good?" The vibrator's head catches on his rim, spreads him wide. The buzz is almost more intense than when it lay against his prostate. Louder too. Over its hum, Sam sounds breathless. "Does it feel good, Dean?"

Dean has no words. He can only whine when Sam's arm flexes again and the dildo slides in. Sam kisses him again, eating his mouth, eating the soft, stifled cries that well up from his ass and cock and belly.

"You feel good," Sam goes on, like Dean answered. "You feel so good, Dean. My good, beautiful Dean. You always make getting fucked look like the best, most wonderful thing ever."

 _It's not being fucked,_ Dean wants to say but his tongue is Sam's, entangled, entwined.

"If I asked you—told you—to fuck me, would you do it, Dean? Would you let me fuck myself on that beautiful cock?"

Dean gasps, hand darting around his cock to stave off the orgasm boiling up from his balls. They've never done that. Sam's never asked. The thought of it, though… "Sam," he chokes, "I need… Need to come…"

Sam's chuckles vibrate through him almost as hard as the dildo. "Okay, Dean. Okay, just wait a sec. Let me…"

_What do you want, Dean?_

"…hear you, I just wanna hear you, baby; I'll fuck you soon, I promise, but first I want to feel you come apart, just like this," Sam's lips sear down Dean's spine and Dean swears he can tell how each nerve is connected to his cock, "just like this."

A third finger, then, still not as big as Sam's cock and yet still enough to fill him, to satisfy, thick sluices of unending pleasure, ass to cock, cock to ass. "Yes," Dean whispers into the hollow between his crossed and fisted arms. "Sam. Anything you want, yes, Sam, yes…"

"You too." Sam gnaws lightly at Dean's hip and then sucks, hard bruising. "That's the deal, Dean, nothing you don't want too."

Impatience threads through Dean's lust. Of course he wants this. Sam's fingers deep in him, playing him like Dean plays his guitar. Sam's hands. All over him. Holding him together, making him fall apart. "I want," Dean answers, spreading his legs wider, pushing his hips back to take Sam deeper. Sam groans and bites down again, a silver flash of bright pleasure-pain that nearly distracts him from the siren song of his dick.

"What?" Sam asks. "What do you want?"

At heart, the answer is always the same. Only the details change.

"What do you want, Dean?"

"You," Dean answers, twisting, coming, the bare place on his wrist more naked than any of the rest of him. "Always you, Sam."

It was true when they were children, it's true now. When everything else is melting away in shades of shadow and grey, this one thing beams out, his beacon through the rocks.

He's twenty-seven and this is how it is.

And he doesn't want it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to offtheceiling for the beta.


End file.
